


Lemonade Sea

by TheSoulOfAStrawberry



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: And Martin is Martin, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Ridiculous conversations with Arthur, also sad things, in which Douglas is exasperated, post-Yverdon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-25
Updated: 2013-07-25
Packaged: 2017-12-21 06:51:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/897173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSoulOfAStrawberry/pseuds/TheSoulOfAStrawberry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It had never occurred to Douglas that Carolyn might actually be mortal- which is why it come as a shock to the system when she is rushed to hospital after having a heart attack. And yet, that's only scratching the surface- as more revelations are in store, as he shares a waiting area with a fidgety Martin, a hysterical and then unnervingly quiet Arthur, and, as if to put the proverbial cherry on the cake, Herc.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Arthur

**Author's Note:**

> I realise writing post-Yverdon, about death, _again_ could be construed as yours truly having a bit of a schadenfreude side- but do not fear! While I, like most writers out there, enjoy seeing my readers cry; this isn't as sad a tale as the summary might hint. After all, Carolyn's invincible... Right?
> 
> Will be multi-chapter because I wrote too much- feel free to yell at me about things if I mess up.

Carolyn's age had never really crossed Douglas' mind, for the same reason that he had never made a jam and cream-cheese sandwich- it just seemed a bit obscure of a thought. Sixty-four wasn't young, of course (not that he dare say that to her face); but it wasn't particularly old either: not to mention, she was too stubbourn and ubiquitous for something as petty and as common as death. Other people could have their deaths, all lily-wreaths and sombre hymns; but Carolyn? Douglas wouldn't have been surprised if she'd just not died- without any sort of pizzazz or fanfare, that she just continued on, face as if she were sucking a lemon, while the years whistled by. Probably still trying to spite her ex-husband fifty years after his death, he would imagine, with some slightly stumbling scheme running a hotel on one of his lesser estates. 

Hence, perhaps, without overthinking anything, Douglas was sincerely shocked to hear that Carolyn had had a heart-attack.

It was all hushed tones down the phone, but Douglas got the story, loud and clear, like a klaxon in the fog.

For a moment, Douglas' whole world came crashing down on his shoulders. The dark hallway began to close in on him, and the curved plastic of the phone up against his ear was painfully hard, jutting into his fingers and temple as he clenched it, hard.

A heart-attack? 

Carolyn was like a god. She'd seen Douglas through a tough divorce, Martin through his ceaseless financial hardships, and Arthur through just about everything under the sun, from potty-training to puberty- and yet, Douglas had never seen Carolyn break. Yes, she'd admitted having troubles holding MJN together, and once confessed she once thought Arthur being the way he was down to her bad parenting- but that was nothing, considering what punches she been dealt by life. He'd never seen her façade slip; her mouth twist into a forlorn, despondent frown; her shoulders go limp, or a single tear roll over her papery skin. 

Gods didn't go to hospital, Douglas thought, running a hand wearily through his hair, and putting the phone back on the hook without uttering another word. They were omnipotent and sempiternal, never existing so physically. At any rate, they certainly didn't cower to such trivialities as health or age. The thought of Carolyn with those breathing tubes one sees in medical-dramas was enough to turn Douglas' stomach, setting him on edge as he stalked into the kitchen, where the late-morning was sitting on the window pane, scattering itself into shards of light across the linoleum. 

He grabbed his keys from the work surface, without taking his eyes off the central point upon which they were fixed- a dullness of the brain rendering the mighty Douglas Richardson shaken and fearful. He slipped through his own front door like a ghost, as dexterous fingers pulled the Lexus key from the jangling bunch. 

Lay on, Macduff.

The next thing he knew, he was driving. Fitton was too small, particularly with the recent NHS climate (Jeremy Cunt, wasn't it?), to be blessed with its own hospital, so Douglas followed the signs to Daventry, a few miles up the road. 

As he gripped the steering wheel, he became aware of the sound of violins dancing on his eardrums, in a flurry of crochets. Mozart's Violin Concerto No. 3, his brain presented, like a learned librarian clutching an encyclopedia in weary hands. Memorable, epic, and a stereotypical piece from the Austrian composer.

His thoughts wandered idly, and he remembered picking up Carolyn and Arthur to take them to the airfield, and being surprised when both Carolyn and Arthur expressed their fondness for the piece- Carolyn, for one, Douglas being perplexed as to how one could like Mozart but not opera, considering Mozart actually wrote operas (sixteen of them, to be exact)... though Arthur too- to think the man had a taste for the exquisites of classical music?

He'd not asked either of them their reasons behind, in his opinion, their unbalanced tastes, not considering it the most auspicious lines of questioning when Arthur was in the back-seat. He wished he had, now. Now there was a chance he might never get the opportunity- a fact that hung over his head, like a dreary Welsh raincloud of melancholy.

Absent-mindedly, he reached for the radio tuner, and, without taking his eye off the road for longer than a split second, twiddled the knob between his index finger and thumb until he came across what was most probably _Woman's Hour_. 

He allowed the voices to wash over him like bizarrely eloquent bathwater, the reserved tones and hushed laughter of the guests purling in his ears. He hadn't realised he'd be sat so straight, nor that he'd been so tense. He dropped his shoulders. Flexed his fingers. 

Better.

Countryside rushed past him- a patchwork of fields, staring cattle and rough hedges whipping past his window, nothing staying still long enough to be significant, nor making a loud enough noise to be audible over the steady growl of the car's engine. The road was long and straight- the only one of its kind out of Fitton, barely an A road, but used enough to make it a significant enough feature in his local geography- not that he really recognised much of it all. 

He found himself asking if he'd had any reason to take this road before, and shook his head frenetically, as if to clear it of all the jargon cluttering it. He was a sky-god, not a middle-aged mother of two: roads were roads. His internal monologue was silly.

"Do pull yourself together, Richardson," he said to the empty car, as he realised he was scolding himself internally for thinking about strange topics. It was little use- the blood rushing in his ears seemed to be saying "Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn" over and over without hesitation, and there was little more he could do to lift the weight in his stomach other than to keep his eyes firmly fixed on the road ahead of him.

Much to his own surprise, he arrived at Daventry General in one-piece, both physically and emotionally. He wasted little time finding a parking space, heading straight for the overflow in his boundless wisdom, rather than snaking his way around the cluttered side car park. 

The air outside the car was nippy, and although it bit at his cheeks as he stepped onto the pavement, it was wonderfully refreshing, and smelt clean compared to the stuffy, artificial-lemon-and-leather interior of the car. There was a certain humidity to the atmosphere, too, as if it might rain again, and fill the waning puddles back up. Bleak seas of murky rainwater cleansing the pavements, washing away the footprints of the masses.

He walked with purpose, holding his jacket about his collar and taking long, hurried strides- even though, inside, his heart was beating ten-to-the-dozen and his stomach seemed to be filled with the world's angriest storm of butterflies. He'd always hated hospitals- well, perhaps not always; his daughter's bout of pneumonia a couple of years ago probably had a sizeable amount to do with it. Either way, the rusted sign and the glass-pannelled front-doors were daunting, and he had to muster up alot of self-restraint to stop his placid facial expression from slipping as the doors opened for him, and he stepped into the lobby. 

His initial thought was that he was glad he'd not gone through A&E- it was busy enough down that end of the hospital, the front desk barely visible for all the doctors and patients and family and... Arthur?

"Douglas!" came a shout, and something heavy launched itself into Douglas' shoulder, and clutched at him like a stubbourn limpet. Initially winded, Douglas looked down to see a messy crop of chesnut hair, beneath which was a man with fat, salty tears streaming down his cheeks. Douglas' expression did slip, then, and he was glad someone like Herc or Martin wasn't around to see it, or they might have snapped a photo. It truly was terrible, seeing Arthur displaying an emotion other than unrelenting cheeriness- especially in the way he did it, making an awful racket, and attracting a few people's attention with his blushed face and look of genuine distress. Douglas' heart dropped in his rib-cage. Was it really that bad?

"Arthur," Douglas began, finding it strange when Arthur straightened up, and wasn't wearing his normal stewards... costume. In fact, he looked older wearing boots and jeans- even with the startlingly bright-yellow jumper that gave Douglas an ache in his temples if he looked at it for too long. 

He guided the hysterical man across the lobby, ignoring the attention from the nurses behind the desk, and pushed him into the Mens, which, thankfully, was empty. Here, he handed Arthur some tissues, and allowed himself to take a deep breath, to clear his head, and relax his body from all the adrenaline that had been released when Arthur had plummeted into his side. 

What he wanted to do was go and find where it was they were looking after Carolyn- it surely couldn't be as serious as Herc had made it sound over the phone; it was Carolyn, after all, and, much like his favourite operas, Herc was prone to a bit of melodrama to spice up his otherwise mundane life pretending not to be Carolyn's boyfriend and pretending to be Douglas' captain. However, this was, at present, an impossible next step, as the tears were dripping down Arthur's face quicker than he was mopping them up with the scraps of scratchy toilet-tissue Douglas had handed him.

"Here," Douglas said, his voice a mixture of caring and exasperation as Arthur looked up. He couldn't really stay annoyed for long: not when Arthur's eyes were so red and puffy, it would have been hard to tell otherwise if he'd been in a fight. Douglas got some more tissue and placed it in Arthur's hand, not letting him bend over again to cry. 

"Breathe. Lean against the wall and clear your lungs- no, stand up- and breathe. Yes." Slowly, Arthur calmed down, hiccupping and sniffing and wiping tears away until his cheeks were red raw with all the wiping, and he used his sleeve instead of the awful tissues. A few people came in, and gave the pair strange looks, but once he had moved Arthur to the sinks rather than on the wall next to the urinals, he could easily take no notice of them- and it gave Arthur an opportunity to wash his face: splashing cold water over his face (and on his shirt collar and jumper), until his breathing was nearly back to normal, save a few sniffs and shaky inhalations. Douglas found him inwardly congratulating himself for calming Arthur without much collateral damage- although, much to his disgust, his own nerves had rocketed. If Helena were there, she would have noticed- she was the one who had pointed out that he only ever rubbed his nose when he was anxious. 

"Now," he said softly, though authoratitively, once Arthur had quite finished, and was capable of standing upright and not falling into hysterics. "Tell me what happened."

"I- We were baking a cake for Herc because Mum had yelled at him but I don't know what it was about but I helped anyway and we were trying the mixture and Mum said she felt a bit funny so I got her a glass of water like she does for me when I feel funny like that time I had that bad pasta and got food poisoning but she didn't look any better and said her chest felt tight so I put her on the sofa and-"

"Slowly, Arthur," Douglas interrupted, and Arthur regarded him as if the concept of breathing within sentences was absurd; eyebrows raised, the light not quite registering on his face. In fact, he looked pale- really pale, though it could have been the unnatural light coming from the flourescent lighting bar above their heads. 

"It's my fault," he whispered, his bottom lip trembling.

"Of course not, Arthur," Douglas did his best to help himself from sighing- though it wasn't his usual sigh to express his exasperation with Arthur's naïvety, rather, how he'd heard other people (the dolts of the world) used sighs in communication- to relieve tension. Interestingly, it seemed to work. "Your mum had a heart attack. How did she get here?"

"I drove her."

"You...?" Perhaps Arthur wasn't such a hopeless clot in emergencies after all. "Where is she now?"

"I... I don't know. I- I got a bit lost, so I came to the foyer because I knew that bit and I'd called Herc and when we come to the hospital- mum and me, I mean- we always come through there, and I thought -hic- Herc might come but then you did," he trailed of, his voice sinking into thin air as he began fiddling with his now wet sleeve. 

"When did you call Herc?"

"When we got to the hospital."

"When was that?"

"I don't know."

"He called me."

"Herc did? Oh, OK."

That was a strange reaction, and Douglas considered it carefully before asking, "Were you not expecting me?" 

"Well... No- I mean, thank you for being here, it's really brilliant of you Douglas, but... Skip said you saw your daughter on Saturdays."

Douglas' eyebrows furrowed, and he bit his lip. Yes- he had lacked to tell Martin that he'd had a falling out with Emily's mother, and that he'd not seen her for the last fortnight. Well, he'd been meaning to bring it up on the flight deck, but it never really seemed the right time- especially since a kind of unresolved tension had descended on the crew since Martin's return from Switzerland the previous Thursday. 

However, instead of filling in the still obviously distressed Arthur stood in front of him on his train of thought, he simply said, "No, not today," as if the occassion were a one-off affair. It was at the moment, at least, but in the back of his mind, Douglas feared that this one in particular was to be a long, arduous battle. 

And then, somethig about Arthur's expression made him ask, "Did you call Martin?"

Arthur looked somewhat guilty- in a way that he could tell the answer he was about to give was the wrong one, but didn't know why. 

"Yes."

Douglas felt slightly crushed. He didn't show it, though- instead, putting on a brave smile.

"Douglas?" Arthur asked quietly, as the man in question held the door open for Arthur to go back out to the front doors. He wandered through, and Douglas followed, to hear, from Arthur: "Is Mum going to die?"

He said, "Of course not," as if it were the stupidest question Arthur had ever asked (there was alot of competition to channel the right tone of voice, after all), but he secretly wasn't sure. Perhaps not today- but heart attacks didn't just _happen_ , and next time, it might be worse, or something else- what then? What of Arthur, of MJN, of Gordon? They all seemed to bundle together, interconnected, in a dystopic alternate universe- one without Carolyn.

He gulped, and followed Arthur out into the bright, open space of the lobby, where it was nearly eleven o'clock. Neither man spoke to each other as Douglas went to enquire as to where it was that Carolyn might be; not mentioning her name, because he couldn't quite bring himself to, but looked more into the treatment of general patients in her condition, until they were led down a hall and into a department Douglas forgot to read the sign of. 

Everything passed a bit like a blur, as if his head were full of cotton wool, blotting voices into meaningless murmurs and blurring the outlines of the doctors that passed him. Arthur's nerves had clearly rubbed off on him, though he was determined not to show it.

They did, eventually, find someone who was treating Carolyn- a doctor of about Martin's age and height, with jet-black hair tied in one of the neatest ponytails Douglas had ever seen.

"They've taken her in for an angioplasty to clear any clots at the moment, so I'm afraid you can't see her," she said, after directing them to one side. She certainly wasn't like Martin personality-wise, Douglas observed, trying not to wonder where the man himself had gotten to, since Arthur had actually called him. "Would you mind me asking your relations to Ms Knapp-Shappey?" she continued, and Douglas snapped out of his thoughts long enough to answer before Arthur could put a word in.

"I'm her brother, Douglas," he said, remembering that the doctor had referred to Carolyn as "Ms", "And this is her son, Arthur."

"Alright, Douglas and Arthur," she handled their names as if them hearing them could set them off into floods of tears, "I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to take a seat here, and we'll keep you posted on what's going on when we know more about her condition." She gave what was probably supposed to be an encouraging arm-squeeze to Arthur, but Arthur was too distracted now trying to peek in the window to the room opposite them that he didn't really react.

"Arthur," Douglas gave him a sharp jab in the side, and he plonked himself down on the foldable plastic seat without so much as a glance in Douglas' direction. 

As small, largely obsolete, and probably Arthur-inflicted part of him hoped that they might only have to wait half-an-hour or so for news. This, of course, was not the case. The first fifteen minutes were bearable- he had to explain to Arthur why it was that he was pretending to be his mother's brother, to which the reaction had been Arthur telling Douglas that that would make Douglas his uncle, which he didn't mind. Douglas considered asking Arthur if he did, in fact, have any uncles, and if so, what were they like, but, after remembering recent incidents in Helsinki and St Petersburg regarding members of Arthur's family, it was a line of questioning he preferred not to pursue. Arthur seemed happier sat in silence, anyway. 

He'd then asked himself why Arthur (and, in a sense, Carolyn) could be so uninflicted by his family- and wondered what his childhood had been like. In comparison, Wendy and Caitlin were quite like Martin fundamentally, whereas not really much of even Carolyn could be seen in Arthur. It puzzled him to no end how Arthur did seem to be the enigma of his family- though quite unaware of it. Like a pair of gossips, he'd discussed it with his old First Officer (back when he held his rightful rank) and the other pilot had been convinced that there was something _wrong_ with the steward- but Douglas had never seen this as the case. 

Once he'd exhausted that train of thought (by concluding that Arthur was essentially a law unto himself, and, like the universe, should it should not be attempted to understand him, unless one wishes to dedicate their entire lives to marrying science and philosophy with few actual end results to show for their decades of emotional hardship, as well as an embarrassingly public breakdown or two), Douglas began to people-watch. He liked to people watch- and so did Martin, wherever the hell he was. It wasn't quite the same, in a hospital, than outside a café in the centre of Cambridge. For one, everyone was either ill, a doctor, or a relative, and it was stupidly easy distinguishing each category, unlike trying to guess, between him and Martin, which of the twenty-somethings walking past them actually went to the university, and which were coming to mooch at the market. 

He came to the understanding that having the steady flow of people going in and out of all the doors was a good thing- it meant no one was dying. The moment all the doctors rushed into one room was the moment Douglas would have to distract Arthur, and quickly.

After a while, Douglas began to get hungry. There wasn't a clock around, and he'd not put his watch back on after showering that morning, so he was a little hazy on the exact time, but he knew it must be lunchtime, maybe half-twelve. Not that he supposed hospital food was up to much. He wished he'd bothered having breakfast. He'd not really wanted to: remembering how he'd be picking his daughter up at nine, normally, and took her down to London for the day, sometimes- and they'd pick up a hot bacon roll each at the garage on the way out of the county. 

She liked tomato sauce on hers, and he liked HP- and he always made sure to draw a smiley face on the bacon with it to make her giggle.

Arthur was still quiet, which must have been some kind of record. He'd relaxed a bit though- he was no longer watching attentively through the doors, so must have, like Douglas, resigned himself to waiting, safer in the knowledge that Carolyn was alive.

He wondered if he'd be able to comfort Arthur to any extent.

"No sign of Herc or Martin, then?"

Arthur checked his phone: Douglas could see from where he was sitting that it was blank.

"No. But Skip said on the phone that he was on a job, so would take a bit."

"Right."

He paused.

"You know you don't have to call Martin "Skip" when we're outside of work, don't you, Arthur?" As much as the sense of the word "work" applied to Arthur anyway.

"Yes."

Douglas knew what was coming.

"Even when he goes to Switzerland."

Or maybe he didn't.

He gawped. " _When?_ " 

"Yeah." He didn't expand on that point, and Douglas still wasn't sure if he wanted to push it. Had Carolyn bought it up with Arthur? This was the sort of thing she needed to talk to him about- or Martin, but Martin was too much of a klutz to be able to have a serious conversation with someone like Arthur... wasn't he? Carolyn would know. Carolyn knew Martin, and Arthur... Why wasn't she there?

Calm, he told himself, rubbing his fingers across his eyes, attempting to free them of the weariness that had been building up in them of late. 

"Arthur, what do you mean by "when" he gets the job- he said they'd let him know. Has Martin told you he got a letter?"

"No. Well... No. He told me when we picked him up from Switzerland that he got the job, but then he said it was a joke and said they'll let him know, but I don't get the joke, so I don't think it was a joke," Arthur mumbled, Douglas having to strain to hear the end of the sentence.

"You say he said it was a joke?"

"I don't think Skip would joke about that, Douglas," Arthur replied simply. 

There was a pause. Douglas didn't think so either.

"So he got the job then?" Douglas pondered. He still wasn't sure- well, why wouldn't Martin tell Douglas and Carolyn he got the job? Surely he would have wanted to prove that he could do something; "win" at something... 

It would explain why he'd been so reserved recently.

"But why tell just you?" 

Arthur just shrugged.

Douglas kicked his legs out in front of him, bored, hungry, nervous and now frustrated that he was unsure on so many topics- it seemed like he didn't know everyone as well as he should. 

And, of course, at the most inconvinient moment, a man came and dropped himself into the seat between him and Arthur, panting slightly, and dressed in jeans and a rather wet t-shirt. His normally carefully combed hair (Martin's two-pence-sized bald patch was a source of endless amusement when he wasn't wearing his ludicrous hat) had gone fluffy and awry in the wind, making him look, in true Martin style, more dishevelled than Arthur and Douglas put together.

"Martin?" Douglas asked, and his head almost exploded with questions, as well as things he wanted to say to the man. However, Arthur had noticed Martin's arrival, dragging his gaze from the door to Carolyn's room for the first time in an hour. 

"Oh god, I'm so sorry I'm late... I-I-Is everything alright- I mean, is she OK? Arthur, you look awful... And Douglas... Wait, why are you looking at me like that?"

May as well address the issue at the top of his mind, Douglas thought. No use bandying with fomalities under the circumstances, after all. 

"When were you going to tell us you got the job in Switzerland, Martin?" he asked, and it came out sounding dangerously threatening.

Martin opened his mouth to speak, and Douglas saw the full extent of what he'd just said to the younger man register on his face, and he closed his mouth again, quite unsure how to proceed. Out of the corner of his eye, Douglas could also see how attentive Arthur had suddenly become.

Martin sighed, and slouched in his seat, tearing his gaze from Douglas to stare at his sufficiently battered shoes. 

"Martin..."

"How do you know?"

"Arthur told me. He's not as stupid as he looks."

"I know," he snapped, "But you're the one who actually thinks that, so I figured you'd never pain yourself to bring it up with him." His tone was biting, as if Douglas had hit a raw nerve- not something he'd seen in Martin for a while. He was taken aback, but it didn't sate his anger enough to stop him continuing. 

"You've not answered my question."

"Bloody hell, Douglas! Fine- I was going to tell you when I got the chance. On a flight or something- but just pretend I'd actually just got a letter, so I didn't have to admit that the concept of moving away from my family and friends to a country where I don't even speak the language didn't absolutely terrify me!"

When he got the chance, Douglas reflected.

"Don't cry, Skip-"

"I'm not crying because of that, it's just-" he sniffed, "I'm not good with the disinfectants they use in hospitals."

"I can't smell any- oh," Arthur stopped short upon seeing Douglas' warning look. 

"I suppose congratulations are in order. Well done, Martin."

"You don't mean that," he replied bitterly, not looking up from being bent over his hands.

"I do, Martin. I spend all this time telling you how I'm a better pilot than you- and I am- but in three months time, I'm going to be without a job, and you will flying with a multi-million pound outfit, probably, with your luck, as First Officer of one of Boeing's lovely new Dreamliners."

"Haha," Martin said sarcastically, but Douglas saw the small smile that meant Martin appreciated the aviation joke. Douglas expected he would regret making the joke later, when Martin would strike up a conversation concerning the merits of hydraulic systems over more lightweight electrical ones, and how Boeing's Dreamliners' mobile phone batteries were an obvious flunk in comparison to Airbus' not yet released jet with engines crafted by Rolls Royce.

"I would have understood, you know."

"No you wouldn't have. You would have pushed me to go, you and Carolyn- and I wanted to make my own choice. I wouldn't have minded staying with MJN, but..." He smiled wryly, his face coming of suddenly wise in its expression, compared to the normally childish frowns and freckles, "It can't last forever, can it? Not to mention," he laughed sadly, "I need the money." 

And he broke into a fresh wave of tears, not even trying to hide it this time- sobbing so loudly that a few people looked over to see what the racket was about, including a few nurses, who looked like they might come over and see what the matter was. Arthur looked a bit fragile now, and Douglas prayed he wouldn't start crying too. 

Thankfully not- he just reached around his skipper, and gave him a tight, Arthur-y hug. 

"Anyway," Martin sniffed, wiping his eyes as quickly as he could, even though it was ridiculously obvious he'd been bawling, "Is Carolyn OK? Arthur didn't know what it was when he called, and I knew it was an emergency but I'm sorry I couldn't get here faster-"

"You were on a job," Douglas filled in. "Arthur said. Carolyn had a heart attack."

Douglas saw Martin's face drop into a look of utter horror, marvelling at how Douglas hadn't felt the need to start the conversation with that, as well as turning to look at Arthur, now understanding why he was in such a strange mood.

"A heart attack? God, I thought it'd be something like a sprained wrist or head injury- h-heart attack?" There seemed to be less real about the phrase the more times Martin repeated it. Perhaps, if they were in some strange story, if he said it too much, it might become a spell that would make the walls turn into purple rabbits and the doctors into spagetti letters that spelt out diagnoses.

"They're doing some procedure now," he expanded, "And they've yet to come and find us, so she's doing alright. On the other hand- what happened to you?"

"I- nevermind me! What kind of procedure? Is that dangerous? Where's Herc? How did she get here? Is Arthur- Arthur, are you OK?"

"I'm fine, Skip," Arthur braved a smile. 

"Non-surgical procedure, so it's fine. I can't even remember what it's called- Christ, though Martin, look at your hands! And your t-shirt is wet through..." He reached out to feel the t-shirt, and Martin flinched. It was freezing cold. And, sure enough, there were cuts, tiny ones, but altogether bloody and nasty-looking, criss-crossing his left hand. 

"I-I-I... My van got broken into. They broke through the window on the passenger side, and I had nothing to clear the glass off the seat... That's why I was late, I couldn't leave all of that lady's stuff in the van while it wasn't secure, a-a-and I was taking it back to Fitton- God, Douglas, stop looking at me like that, I know I'm pathetic, I don't need you to say it in some really intelligent way-"

"Martin, really, you underestimate me," Douglas warned, "Our boss- our friend, rather, is being treated for a heart attack, I've spent the morning calming Arthur down from hysterics, and you've had your van broken into. I'm not about to start teasing you now," he said, his voice low, like the roll of thunder. Martin looked unsure- and it hit him; the wave of guilt that made it clear why perhaps, Arthur preferred Martin over himself, and possibly vice versa from Martin's side.

"So how did you get here, Skip?" Arthur asked. 

"With my van... They didn't take the van, Arthur," Martin replied, shooting a weary look in Douglas' direction- and he was right to, because Douglas nearly pointed out why no one in their right mind would have bothered stealing the van. Thinking about it though, the van was the most valuable thing Martin now owned, really: it seemed a bit sadistic to make fun of that one thing. 

"What did they take, then?"

"My wallet, my keys, and my bag- which didn't have much in, just some clothes. And, before you ask, I keep one of the van keys loose in my pocket, so I could still drive. But I can't get back into my room in the house. A-A-And..."

"You've got no money," Douglas finished for him, and he nodded, looking as if he might burst into tears again. 

"Well, I've got the cash from the last job... But there was a picture of my mum and dad in that wallet. And cards. Thankfully not my pilot's license, but my driving one's in there..."

"So you can fly, but you can't drive. Something of a dilemma, albeit probably the preferred option for someone who likes flying. Have you cancelled your cards?"

"N-No." Douglas gave a long, heavy sigh. "And it's not the preferred option- I actually get paid to move people's things, and I can't keep doing it with no license and a window filled in with a bin-bag," he spluttered.

"You need to cancel them."

"I've not got the number-"

"Call those guys," Arthur piped up, though it struck Douglas and Martin as more monotonous and certainly much less enthusiastic than he might have said it under usual circumstances. 

"Arthur, which "guys" are you referring to? Because I fear you may need to be more specific."

"From the tele. With the moustasches."

There was a pause, before Douglas said, "118."

"How did you get that from guys from the tele with moustasches?" Martin hissed with indignance, and there were a few flustered looks in his direction, making him turn an interesting shade of salmon pink underneath the constellations of his freckles. 

"How many others can you think of, Martin?"

Martin's brow knitted in thought for a second.

"Hitler? Um... Um... David Burke?"

"Very good, Martin. And yet, how often do you see either of those two on TV nowadays? Not to mention, Hitler would have had the sense to shave that moustache by now, one would hope."

"Is Hitler not dead?" Arthur asked quietly- but evidently, not quietly enough, because any people that hadn't been perplexed by the three men before were now paying full attention, giving Douglas in particular harshly judgemental eyebrow-raises. Just his luck- Martin had obviously just been crying (therefore winning the pity vote) and Arthur was too... Arthur-looking, for either of them to get picked on. 

"Yes."

"Some say not," Douglas added out of spite, and Martin's expression hardened. 

"Some people think the Bermuda Triangle sucks you into space," he replied to Douglas, "Because of an effect that would mean the sea would have to be like lemonade."

Arthur perked up.

"Hitler is dead, and there is nowhere where the sea is lemonade, Arthur," Martin grimaced. 

The three fell silent for about a minute, staring at their shoes, Douglas attempting to gauge how successful they'd all been in taking their minds off Carolyn: and jusging by the sombre expressions on Martin and Arthur's faces, he concluded that they had altogether failed.

"So what made your shirt so wet, Martin?"

"Go away, Douglas."

"Sir, I was only trying to help."

"You weren't trying to help, you're trying to find a reason to get at me."

"I could say the same about you keeping the news about Swiss Air from Carolyn and I," Douglas crackled like a thunderstorm, though as soon as he opened his mouth, he regretted saying it. Martin was too prissy to ever keep ulterior motives, especially to the stardard Douglas had them. 

Unfortunately, Douglas didn't get the chance to continue that line of thought, as Martin got to his feet, and held a hand out to Arthur in beckoning, who looked confused, before tentatively acquiescing and getting to his feet. 

"I'm going to find Arthur something to eat," Martin said abruptly, which seemed to make the laconic Arthur protest less about being led away from near his mother's room. As they walked away, he could hear Martin telling Arthur that nothing would happen while they went to get some food, and Arthur asking Martin if he were sure. And it was Martin- of course he wasn't. But he managed a convincing enough smile, and a warm pat on Arthur's shoulder as they turned out into the corridor, in what Douglas reckoned to be the entirely wrong direction.

Unfortunately, Douglas' peace thereafter, with his thoughts to himself (and fewer people looking his way) was short-lived- diminshing almost completely with the arrival of another hurried individual: Herc.


	2. Herc

"Douglas," he panted, a hint of his usual degrading tone still present in his voice, "Where is Carolyn? I looked it up and they say heart-attack patients- wait-"

Thankfully, he was cut off. Unfortunately, it was due to a doctor standing patiently in front of Douglas, who, without realising it, had stood up on Herc's arrival. 

"Are you the brother of Ms Carolyn Knapp-Shappey?" came her curt question- it wasn't the same doctor as before. 

"Yes," Douglas replied smoothly, shooting a warning look at Herc, that demanded he keep it zipped.

"I'm her fiancé," Herc added, once he'd clocked on to Douglas' plan. Douglas thought he saw Herc smirk. Git.

"OK, then. We're just letting you know that Ms Knapp-Shappey is being moved to a ward now- we'll need to keep her in for observation for a few days, and she'll need to do rehabilitation when she comes out of hospital, so she needs all the support she can get. In the meantime, she's not come around yet, but you can still see her." She paused, as if to let them soak-up the information. "She'll be in Ward B3, in about fifteen minutes." The doctor finished with a hardened smile, and a little nod, before disappearing off into the rippling sea of people that morphed into the singular entity of a crowd before Douglas' very eyes. Perculiar optics.

"Brother?"

"Fiancé?!"

"I would be," Herc replied petulantly, "If it weren't for Carolyn's eternal stubbornness. Is Arthur not here? He rang me in hysterics before the hospital did."

"Martin has taken Arthur off to find some food."

"How thoughtful of him. Is Arthur alright?"

"You overestimate the capacity of the thoughts Martin can have. He's sulking. And Arthur is fine. 

"Not _brilliant_?"

"No," Douglas frowned at Herc's sense of familiarity with Arthur.

"And what's wrong with Martin then?"

"Other than the usual?" Douglas raised his eyebrows.

"You're harsh on him."

Douglas didn't appreciate the feedback on that one. Herc was hardly the golden boy- Martin had done plenty of sucking-up before in an effort to get a job with Caledonian, and Herc had quite readily brushed it off without as much as a second glance toward Martin's labours. 

"He got the job with Swiss Air."

Now it was Herc's turn to raise his eyebrows, and, much to Douglas' surprise, he said no more on the matter. It was only later, when Douglas returned to that curiosity, that he realised that this was because Herc had evidently failed in getting a job with Swiss Air- despite his heightened chances, being resident smart-arse at Caledonian. 

As if he'd not learnt enough about his colleagues lately. 

"They did an angioplasty to clear the clots, and probably some medicines or whatever," Douglas filled in lamely.

Herc nodded. "I didn't attend med school, even fleetingly, so you'll have to excuse me if that meant nothing to me."

They stood in silence for a while, Herc lowering the bag he'd bought (presumably with things for Carolyn) to his feet as they stood awkwardly in each other's presence, the air thick with nerves.

Maybe Douglas _was_ too harsh on Martin. He could, if he significantly lowered his level of self-esteem, see the whole thing from Martin's point of view- it would he hard to take such a huge leap of faith into a new job, especially as everything in Martin's life seemed to be perpetually flat on its face. Had he talked to his family about it? Probably not, Douglas thought, remembering how Martin's job was a lesser topic of discussion, it seemed, in the Crieff household. And he knew all too well what Martin's mum was like- she would unwittingly confuse the man, simultaneously forcing him to go whilst making him feel irreversibly guilty for leaving her in Wokingham under the care of a mere two of his siblings.

The other thing troubling Douglas was what would become of Arthur, Carolyn and himself in the future. Presumably, Martin would take the job... But then what? Would MJN fold? It had to, someday, inevitably, he supposed- and glanced at Herc, wondering for how long he'd have to suffer if they became each other's co-pilot. But after that Hell-on-Earth... What then, when he became a member of the mass unemployed? It was hard enough to find a job as a pilot nowadays, they said, let alone one with a bad reputation with multi-million pound airlines and a few O and A-Levels from back in the Dark Ages. And not being able to find a job would just be scratching the surface- he'd lose all the assets on his house; he'd have to get rid of his beautiful Lexus... And Emily's mum would never let him see her again if he hadn't a job, let alone being without a house or a car. 

Arthur and Carolyn would be even worse off- Carolyn would be too proud to liquidate the company until they were completely bankrupt, and neither of them had even the slightest chance of getting another job.

And then there was the other possibility, fresh on his mind stood in a hospital- what of Arthur if Carolyn wasn't so lucky next time? Because, no denying it, there always was a next time. 

Suddenly, there was a packet of something being held out to him. Douglas looked up, slightly dumbly, to see Martin, with a drier shirt, holding a chicken caesar wrap and a bottle of blackcurrant juice out to him. 

"You owe me."

Douglas took it, gathering his senses and smiling awkwardly.

"I expect I do- hospital food is hideously expensive," he said, and Martin looked like he knew it. "Thank you, Martin."

"'S no problem." 

Out of the corner of his eye, Douglas could see Herc smiling conceitedly, gloating, and he had to restrain himself, telling himself that there were too many witnesses to him punching the man square in the face. 

Arthur floated around at Martin's elbow, looking sheepish and a bit more out of his depth now he'd had time away from the room. Douglas felt for him, in that strange way one has to for the enigma of a sad Arthur; though he didn't let himself show it- instead stood tall, giving Martin a wink.

"Carolyn's being moved to Ward B3," he told Martin and Arthur, and he was glad to see the loosening of both men's shoulders. 

"Oh-oh... Uh..." Martin began, but Douglas cut him off. 

"But she won't be awake yet. Hence, my proposal is, that Herc goes to the ward to be her knight-in-shining-armour when she awakes," he looked pointedly at Herc, checking if the sarcasm had been picked up on, "While you and I, Martin, take Arthur somewhere quite to eat that lunch."

"But... Mum!"

"It's alright Arthur, Herc'll be with her," Martin tried, holding Arthur's arm, eerily possesive. 

"She really doesn't like hospitals," he mumbled. Martin nodded. Arthur looked as if he might suddenly break from Martin's grip and run off down the corridor, howling.

"She won't want to be crowded. And Herc'll let us know as soon as she wakes up. Plus, surely, um... Don't you always think Douglas knows best?"

"S'ppose. There's just this funny feeling in my tummy..."

"You're hungry," Douglas said, too quickly, and judging by Martin's look, he was half-in, half-out of the dog-house at that moment, and should tread carefully. "I'll meet you in five at that little seating area round the corner."

"Where are you-"

But Douglas was off like a shot, strolling at a pace he reserved for getting away from Martin quickly- specifically designed to be just out of range of his fastest walking-pace, meaning he tended to stop following, lest he have to break into a jog next to Douglas. However, Martin didn't follow. 

Douglas took the quick route to the car park, out of a door that probably should have been reserved for emergencies only, but, as no alarms went off when he opened it, seemed the better route, and meant he could avoid the sickening number of ill people at the front of the hospital.

The air outside once again refreshed him. It had rained, and was still drizzling weakly.", and the air was abuzz with the smell of wet grass and tarmac, myriad umbrellas shimmering at the bus stop over near the front entrance. He was glad of the breather, away from Arthur and Martin and all those bustling people and docotrs and nurses... 

Douglas found his Lexus quickly, and, clicking it unlocked, threw open the boot. He was relieved to find his trip not wasted: there still was that first aid kit in the back; still unused from when he'd bought it to go camping with Helena some five years previously. That had been a good trip, he thought sadly, picking up the green box by the handle. They'd gone to the Lake District, and it had rained non-stop all week, but somehow, they'd managed to say dry and cosy in a single compartment of their tent, eating cheese and pickle sandwiches and telling each other stories about their childhoods. 

He closed the boot with a resounding thud, and, with a quick glance at the parking restrictions- or lack thereof- he made his way back to the hospital.

Martin was on the phone when he returned. He had a confused look on his face, and seemed to be trying to reason with someone on the other end.

"No- no, the numbers are right... Are you sure? OK... Can't you use my details instead- oh, OK, sorry... Perhaps I'll ring back later. Sorry about that. Thank you very much- OK... Um... Yes. Thank you! Thanks for your help."

Arthur looked on from his side as Martin terminated the call on a rather old mobile. Neither of them had really touched their food- it lay open on the table, and every now and again, Martin would pick at his. Arthur just fiddled with his cuffs, ignoring the food entirely.

"No luck?" Douglas asked as he sat down on the chair opposite, and for a moment, Martin looked wary, until his line of sight slid to Douglas' hand and he raised his eyebrows.

"Call centre. I... I couldn't really understand what he was saying, but I got that they couldn't find my account."

"I see," Douglas said, lifting the lid of the first aid kit. It really had all sorts of nifty things Douglas could use- but he started, sensibly, with non-alcoholic wipes, and bandaging equipment.

"No, Douglaaasss-" Martin protested, as he realised what Douglas was attempting to do. Arthur was still watching them, his head now in his arms, as if he were about to fall asleep. Douglas ignored the dissent, and gently took one of Martin's hands.

"Watch and learn, Arthur. They don't show you real-life squirming captains on your courses in Ipswich, hm?" He looked up at Martin. "There are better ways to clean glass from a seat, so this is your own fault, sir."

He dabbed carefully at the cuts, while Martin twitched, re-opening some of them. Only a few were really deep, as if Martin had initially thought it wouldn't hurt, and had gone in full-force, before realising he'd managed to cut his palm into ribbons.

"Which bank is it?"

"Hm?"

"Your card."

"How do you know I only have one?" Martin said with a little indignant huff.

"You're Martin Crieff, the one and only unpaid pilot. Need I say more?"

Martin scowled. "Barclays."

"You need to..." Douglas paused to concentrate, picking a miniscule shard of glass out of one of the cuts with the corner of the wipe. Good job he thought to clean them, Douglas thought. "You need to get the number for the Fitton branch. No use calling those national call centres."

Martin nodded, using his free (and thankfully, less sliced-up) hand send a text, before adding, as if as an after-thought, "I used to work in a call-centre."

"Not phone-sex, I hope?"

"Douglas!"

"Oh, Martin, don't be a prude. Anyway, I'm sure Theresa would love that kind of thi- Arthur, stop looking at me like that."

Arthur blinked innocently.

"I won't tell Mum."

"That is a great relief, Arthur, truly. But come on Martin-"

"No. It was to earn extra money once I'd made myself broke funding the first try at my CPL." He said "first" with a certain bitterness and self-loathing that made Douglas' skin crawl in a way it didn't often do. "An insurance company. You get some weird people on the other end of the phone, but most of them are just... ruder than Mr Birling and Gordon Shappey put together," Arthur looked uncomfortable at the mention of Gordon's name, "And it's... soul-destroying, doing that kind of work. Plus, it didn't help that by then Simon was already project managing some new bypass in Reigate- ow, _Douglas_!"

"Keep your knickers on, Captain," Douglas gritted his teeth, being as delicate as possible with the wipe. Martin really had the fingers for doing such a thing, but he could hardly do his own hand. Douglas would just have to manage, clumsy fingers and all. "What about you, Arthur?"

"What, have I ever worked in a call-centre?"

"Well, that's part of it- but, have you had any terribly awful jobs?"

"No," he lifted his head from the table, "Not really. I mean, I really liked most of my jobs. I love being a steward, that's my favourite... I suppose, though, I worked in a café once and I didn't understand the till very well so the man in charge said I should wash up instead... And it wasn't so brilliant. There were so many plates, and it was really really hot, a bit like when we went to the Sahara in GERT-I and the air-conditioning went off."

"And we had all those topless Scottish men playing cricket in the cabin," Douglas chuckled, and he even saw Martin crack a smile.

"We drove GERT-I down that main road..." he mused. He turned to Douglas. "Surely you've had an awful job before, Douglas?"

"Oh, plenty. Not nearly as amusing as yours, though. Like, I worked in an office between pilot jobs once, which might be hard for you to believe, seasoned old pilot like myself. And there was that job in Morrisons for a year when I had to pay the extortionate prices for the service of a barrister to let me see Emily."

"I can't imagine you stacking shelves... T-Though... Do-Don't you see Em- your daughter, on Saturdays, usually?" Martin asked, as Douglas disposed of the next wipe on the small pile he had created and reached for the bandaging equipment, making sure not to get it dirty, as he had been taught in those mind-numbingly dull First Aid courses he'd had to take at least once every two years since he turned 25, when he had gotten his first piloting job. 

Martin was giving Douglas that look, and was obviously waiting for an answer. 

"Usually, yes. But things have gone tits-up recently."

"Oh... Oh-"

"No. I have basically been barred from seeing her for the time being- which is absolutely preposterous, but she..." He gulped, and left the sentence hanging. Martin was looking at him the same way one might look at a homeless dog, or how Douglas sometimes looked at Martin when his stomach made a begging noise during a flight.

Martin seemed to collect himself enough to say, "I'm sorry. I didn't realise."

"I like your daughter, Douglas."

"Arthur, you've not seen her for years. She could barely speak when we took her to the zoo."

"You took Arthur to the zoo?" Martin said incredulously.

"I was a considerably younger man. Carolyn came too, though- I could hardly handle a three-year-old girl and Arthur, after all."

"Hey!" Arthur protested.

"So... What happened?" Martin asked, as Douglas pressed the padded part of the bandage to the worst part of Martin's palm, which decidedly didn't look so bad now he had cleaned the dried blood up. 

"At the zoo? Arthur got lost in the aquarium, stroking manta rays or something."

"No, I mean... Between you and..."

"We had a falling out," Douglas said simply after a quiet moment of wrapping Martin's hand and tucking the stray ends in. He'd done quite well: neat, and keeping in line with those courses, the epitome of hygiene, he thought, and Martin smiled in thanks.

"Is that it?"

"I rather fancy I've said too much. I don't fancy divulging much else, unless, perhaps, you were to explain why your t-shirt is so wet?"

"It was sweaty from humping boxes and I failed at trying to clean it under the tap in the Mens room," Martin said, without batting an eyelid, and Douglas snorted- partially at the story, but mostly at Martin's boldness. Evidently, he thought that if he didn't act the victim (as he was so accustomed to doing), then Douglas wouldn't find his misfortune as funny.

"Oh Martin..."

"Go on then."

"No- I want to know how it's going between you and the lovely Princess of Liechtenstein first."

"D-Douglas!" Martin spluttered, slamming his bad hand down on the table and cringing with the pain- to which Douglas rolled his eyes. 

"Old romantic like me want to know these things, Martin. As the glossy mags would put it- _spill the goss_ ," he said, wiggling his eyebrows.

"Yeah, Skip, how's Theresa?"

"I'm not- oh, for God's sake," Martin fumed, "Fine. We've not been out since the Taj Mahal, but we set up Skype accounts and kept in contact through there. Happy?"

"Not got anything planned?"

"W-W-Well, no... I-I-I figured we'd have... plenty of time when I moved... to... Switzerland." Martin was quite obviously treading carefully.

The mood for Douglas' teasing disappointingly died down. There was a long pause, in which Douglas once again reflected the consequence of Martin giving up at MJN. He wasn't sure he was angry anymore- not even at Martin not telling him. He didn't get paid for the work he did (God knows how Carolyn had managed with that one for so long), and therefore didn't really need to hand his notice in, or have any sense of company loyalty. In fact, Douglas had checked- Martin was only on the paperwork necessary for safety procedures and limitations, and wasn't officially even part of the company. Carolyn had never taken his National Insurance number or anything- so, even from the government's point of view, Martin Crieff was not a pilot (forget captain), just a sad man with a crappy van. No one would think to look into it, of course, and nobody bar Carolyn and himself would know this, but it was a crystal-clear reflection of how much Martin was owed, shaky flying skills aside. 

"I don't suppose the situation will become much better if I lose my job," Douglas said quietly, and thankfully, Martin didn't take it the wrong way, and Arthur didn't ask questions- they both just wore knowing looks, Martin giving an understanding nod. 

"You'll find another job, Douglas. God, if I can find a job, any old bugger can," he sighed. Douglas wanted to find this funny, but there was a heavy feeling in his chest- a niggling doubt, as he asked himself if Martin was actually right, or not. Jobs were thin on the ground nowadays, let alone ones for pilots.

"Are you still wanting to work in a hotel, Arthur?" Douglas diverted the conversation, and was surprised to see Arthur just shrug.

"Mum said there are some nice ones in London that I could go and work with, and then there'd be loads of interesting people there too like actors and singers and stuff," he explained, but didn't sound overly enthused. 

Coversation, having been audibly dwindling and stumbling over awkward topics for the previous few minutes, finally came to a halt altogether. The atmosphere wasn't tense, however- like a train stopping at a station and cooling its gears, it was natural and allowed Douglas to organise his thoughts, compose his worries about jobs, friends and family, and sample the less-than-wonderful food Martin had purchased for him.

Could have been worse, he thought, looking at the limp lettuce and synthetic-looking chicken swaddled in soggy tortilla. There had been some pretty questionable dishes served to the two pilots and the cabin crew over the years, particularly with Carolyn's hotel selections. Gruel of all kinds, nameless slop, suspicious tinned meats, at least one Findus lasagne somewhere along the lines, and a one memorable plate of brown billed as "Hungarian Stew", that may have had real Hungarians in it, judging by the size and ambiguous nature of the chunks of meat, and, as Martin had noticed, the murderous look in the eye of the chef. 

Martin didn't look best pleased with his meal either, but ate it all the same. Douglas expected he had little choice. He supposed Martin would be looking forward to affording things over his piddly food allowance and the rent for his attic room. 

"Arthur..." Martin began suddenly, swallowing a mouthful of whatever sandwich he was eating. Ploughmans, by the looks of it- a ploughman that had left his butty on the back of his cart in the rain.

"Yes Skip?"

"You... You said your m- Carolyn... She said you should go down to London. D-Does that mean... Are you moving out, then? O-O-Or planning to?"

Arthur looked perplexed. Clearly, it had not occured to him.

"I guess so. I don't think Mum wants to live in London- Dad has a flat in London and I don't think she'd want to live near him."

"London's really big, Arthur."

"Nowhere is big enough when Gordon is involved," Douglas pointed out, and Martin looked like he'd seen a ghost. "Whatever is the matter, Martin?" he said quickly.

"Gordon!" Martin whispered with a sense of urgency. He was trying not to be heard by Arthur, but it wasn't working because Arthur wanted to know what was going on. "Y-You... The hospital might have him down as some kind of contact or Herc might have contacted him, and..."

"Oh no... Douglas..." Arthur looked a bit panicked. 

"I can't see why they would," Douglas stated, pushing through any emotion he might have about seeing the infamous Gordon Shappey again in favour of a cool, collected vow of logic. "The hospital rang Herc- meaning Carolyn has had the chance, in the past year, to change her next-of-kin whatever on the NHS records. Not that they're particularly fond of checking records either- the last time I came to hospital, they were insistent on checking and re-checking my own details with me as if I were a schoolboy learning "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner" by heart... Speaking of which," Douglas finished, fishing his phone out of his pocket. Martin and Arthur watched him intensely as he read the text Herc had just sent him.

**C awake, if you want to bring A.**

What an irritating way of writing texts, Douglas thought.

"We've been summoned by His Majesty," Douglas said seriously, and Arthur looked worried. It was an expression Douglas felt he ought to perceive naturally, in the usual manner, but he couldn't help but again, feeling taken aback by the fact that Arthur was all of a sudden so anxious- skittish in tidying the table of his still barely-touched lunch, wearing an odd, fake smile, and purposefully ignoring Martin's concerned gaze.

"Arthur, we can-"

"No, no, Skip, it's fine, all fine... Brilliant," he finished, when he realised "fine" wasn't cutting it with either pilot. 

Douglas lifted himself off the seat wearily, pretending he'd not gone stiff, after hunching over to fix-up Martin's bloody hand. Arthur walked ahead before he could stop him, following his way via the signs- something Douglas was evidently wrong to put past him. Martin dawdled behind, keeping pace with Douglas- something he rarely did, because it made him hyper-aware of the fact he was a good head shorter than his First Officer. Perhaps that was the least of his worries, Douglas considered, as they watched Arthur nearly bump into a nurse. 

"I-I feel I should do something. I-I-I mean... Arthur was so good to my mum, but... It's Carolyn, y'know..." Martin said weakly, running his fingers through his hair in frustration, which did nothing for the fact it was already sticking up in all directions. 

"He didn't ring me, y'know."

"...What do you mean?"

"I mean, Martin, that when Arthur is a literal bundle of nerves, after having raced his own mother to hospital in his own car, his first port of call is not Herc, nor myself, but his esteemed captain; his skipper. You, Martin, are Arthur's go-to man."

There was a heavy silence.

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" Martin muttered.

"No, it's supposed to make Arthur feel better, _Captain_." Douglas ennunciated Martin's title as a way of reminding him that leadership was not all about the ludicrous amounts of gold braid on his hat. Which made Martin uncomfortable. Very uncomfortable- so by the time they'd reached Carolyn's room, Martin was more nervous than Arthur, but twice as determined not to show it. It was childish, really, and less amusing to watch than Douglas had hoped. 

Martin stood as tall as he could (which was still short) and put on a wonky, overly optimistic smile that he shot awkwardly at Arthur. However, much to Douglas surprise, Arthur smiled warmly back- and Martin managed to follow the flow of things, and, for once in his life, did the right thing at the right time (without being told too directly by Douglas): he gave Arthur a hug, catching Douglas' eye over Arthur's shoulder as he whispered something in his ear. Douglas couldn't hear what he said, but he'd get it out of the man sometime. 

Whatever it was, it had seemed to have done the trick. 

"Are we all going in?" Douglas asked, not too loudly, from behind the pair. He could feel his fears rising in his stomach again- though it could have been that wrap- and he had to keep reminding himself that he was a sky god, and bad things did not happen to him, ever. 

But then again, sky gods didn't get this anxious.


	3. Carolyn

It was straight out of a hospital drama. The pristine room; the drab, calm-coloured curtain, the machines bleeping away in unison. And then there was Carolyn, in the middle of it all, not looking much like Carolyn at all. 

Douglas gave a brave smile, and a sincere nod to Herc, but he could feel Martin stopping Arthur from shrinking back beside him. She looked frail, propped up on two pillows, skin papery and pale, as if it might disintergrate at the slightest of touches. The area underneath her watery green eyes was a murky watercolour grey; a stark contrast against her pallor, making it seem as if she'd seen the world fall to its knees a thousand times over. Which, in essence, Douglas thought, she had. More so than he, anyway. 

"Mum?" came Arthur's unsure voice from beside Douglas. Martin really was taking Douglas' words to heart, as he was the first to lead Arthur round the opposite side of Carolyn's bed- the side not already occupied by a large, Scottish, soon to be ex-pilot. 

"Dear Martin, what on earth have you done to yourself now?" was the first thing Carolyn said, sounding as derisive as ever, if not for the words catching in her evidently dry throat. 

"Mum, Skip just... cut himself," Arthur butted in, and Martin made an incredulous squeak as Herc and Carolyn suddenly shared a look, reading a mixture of horror, shock, and a hint of reservedness at such a serious matter. Something about the way Arthur had put it... It took Douglas a few moments to work out what conclusion they'd jumped to (it didn't help that Douglas had wrapped the excess bandage around Martin's wrist) and a sickly shiver ran up his spine. 

"No... Uh, uh, it's... It's not like that... Arthur!"

"Yes?" Arthur replied, who obviously didn't see the double entendre in his explanation. Douglas was relatively surprised to see that Arthur's eyes were beginning to leak again. He thought Carolyn and Herc might look more shocked at the sight of Arthur weeping like a damsel in distress, but Carolyn was wiping Arthur's tears like it was the most natural thing in the world. Which, for a mother, he supposed, it was.

No wonder she looked so worn all of a sudden.

Martin, on the other hand, had stalked to the chair in the corner, where he sat, pouting, and was holding his hand absent-mindedly. 

Outside, rain was falling anew, making the drain outside the window gurgle delightedly.

"How are you feeling, Carolyn?" Douglas felt it necessary to ask, taking his own place in the room leaning on the wall next to Herc the collosal berk.

"Fine. Sad that I don't have the kind of condition where I can make lazy pilots do things for me, but I'll manage."

"We looked after your son well enough," Douglas frowned.

"I hear he needs less looking after than you think," Carolyn smiled a sickly sweet smile, turning to Arthur, "Arthur, love of my life, do stop crying. I am fine, see? I'm sure Douglas likes to be a drama queen, but really, there's no need." 

"Carolyn... T-T-There really is a need. I-I-I-I mean..." Martin exhaled, his timid stammering falling from the lines in his face, replaced by a certain calm power. It was that certain true captaincy Douglas saw a glimmer of every now and again, often in the most ludicrously unexpected circumstances. Martin never noticed it. "You gave us all a scare."

"As much as I hate to agree with _sir_ , he is, on this single occasion, right," Douglas added, getting three very different looks from Herc, Carolyn and Martin. Well, he could hardly have _Martin_ in control.

"I feel fine."

"You had a heart attack, Carolyn!" Herc interjected. Carolyn rounded on him, in a way no woman of her age should be able to do whilst sat under thin hospital sheets in a gown printed with the word "NHS" thousands of times over. Herc cringed back almost impulsively, which Martin noticed. Given, he didn't dislike Herc even a fraction of the amount Douglas did, but, all the same, he caught his First Officer's eye and raised an eyebrow.

"Not you as well, Hercules."

"Really, Carolyn, you are allowed to have some time off." Arthur sniffled at Carolyn's side, and Herc made a move to hold her hand, but, judging by the quick flinching Carolyn made in snubbing his affection, it was not wanted. At least, not in front of her pilots, Douglas reflected.

At least Douglas wasn't the only one who thought the way he did about the existence of Carolyn Knapp-Shappey. Carolyn saw _herself_ as invincible- rejecting help in a different way to ditzy old Wendy Crieff, in that she downright thought it was petty and disgustingly overtly-sentimental, even when it wasn't coming from Herc- who was, at that moment, leaning ever close to Carolyn's side. So much so, Douglas wondered if within the minute, he too would end up with his head in Carolyn's lap, like Arthur. 

"If you want to make me more comfortable, as you keep insisting..." Carolyn met Herc's eye, "You could always take Arthur to get me some coffee. Decent coffee, if you please, virtually impossible as it is to find in such a dreadful place."

"You're not allowed coffee."

"I really don't care. I will drink anything, as long as it's hot and tastes OK," Carolyn waved her hand in dismissal, and Herc seemed let down by Carolyn's lack of a fight. Due to the the fact it came with the territory of actually dating Carolyn, Douglas expected the Herc had not only grown accustomed to the constant battling, but relished in it. Such a fearfully strange relationship, he observed quietly, as Herc, ever the knight, ushered Arthur obediently from the room.

Which meant Douglas and Martin were now the only two left under the wrath of their omniscient CEO. 

"Now," she gave Martin a stern gaze, which he met as he looked up from staring aimelessly as his lap, "I think you boys need to fill me in on a few things."

"Carolyn, I just hurt my hand clearing glass from a seat in the van," Martin said, standing up abruptly; an action that certainly took both Douglas and Carolyn quite aback, given his reserved nature since he'd entered the room. Not to mention Martin was, on an average day, about as unpredictable as a over-fed house-cat. 

"It's true," Douglas shrugged, and Carolyn, much to Douglas' surreptitious delight, looked remarkably sheepish at her blunder.

"I-I-I'm actually fine... a-at the moment," Martin continued- and Douglas frowned, blinking, for two reasons: he hadn't expected Martin to continue, and in doing so, he was being uncharacteristically brave. There was a thick tension hanging in the air; the kind that could easily break the string of a violin, or the hair on the back of ones neck. However, it was also the undertone in the mention of "at the moment" that sent a frission up Douglas' spine. 

Martin saw Douglas' expression, and, looking away, he continued.

"In fact, Carolyn: t-there's something, that, I, uh, needed to tell you. A-A-And I'm sorry to do it now but I figured someone would tell you sooner or later because if we're really going to go into it MJN is a small company, if you want to call it a company, it's more of a... Anyway, what I was saying was... Um..."

"Anytime today, Captain Crieff," Douglas urged, with his usual degrading tone, but the infamous title thrown in as a pick-me-up for Martin's self-esteem- something that did not go unnoticed by either of his collegues still in the room.

"I lied to you. And Douglas. I... I got the job in Switzerland." His face broke out into a little smile: the kind where he wasn't really aware he was smiling, so, unlike when they had photos taken (and he either looked deadly serious or DPRK-standard fake), it looked natural: like Arthur on his birthday, but with less boundless enthusiasm, and considerably less sponge-cake on his nose. 

Douglas had made both Emily's and Arthur's cakes the previous year, Douglas remembered, with a small but immensely sorry pang.

Carolyn relaxed into her pillow, and Martin looked anxious again, in anticipation for her response.

"I may not be the epitome of youth, Martin, but neither was Miss Marple. And I've had the benefit of experience with Arthur to know when something's up. I'm rather offended you hadn't presumed I'd already worked it out," she smiled, cat-like but weak. She'd gone a bit pasty, and Douglas found himself moving towards her side, where Herc had been less than a minute earlier. "Not to mention, you're not completely hopeless. Well done, Martin."

Douglas was dumbfounded. "What do you mean, you knew?" 

"Oh, come on, Douglas! Are you telling me that the all-seeing, infalliable Douglas Richardson couldn't see that his own captain has gone uncharacteristically quiet over the past few days? Though God knows, you talk enough for the two of you... Oh, but this is good," Carolyn looked pleased as she chuckled, rubbing her hands together in mockery. "I'm quite disappointed. You've lost it, Douglas. Next thing you know, you'll be turning into work wearing tartan slippers. 

"I don't wear slippers," Douglas scoffed, but this denial just made Carolyn smile more nefariously.

This wasn't entirely true. Helena had bought him some ghastly things from Marks and Spencer, and for some reason they were still in the back of his wardrobe. 

He made a mental note to burn them.

"Yet," Carolyn added. "Anyway, Martin, get out."

Douglas turned to Martin, who spluttered, but didn't actually say anything coherent. A master of the English language, as usual. 

"I need to have an adult conversation. Shoo."

"I'm 37 years old, Carolyn!" Which might have been a valid point, had Martin not sounded like a child insisting they were old enough to stay out playing after 8pm. 

"Yes, and Arthur is nearly 31," Carolyn deadpanned.

"And we're all too aware of our esteemed captain's hair-loss," Douglas threw in, but, disappointingly, his teasing didn't give him the same satisfaction that it gave him on the flight deck. Maybe it was the confined space. It concentrated his digs.

Or perhaps it was that hospitals were simply too drab and full of death to be an optimum environment for Martin-teasing.

Said man, still, had gone an exotic shade of maroon.

"At least I'm not grey," Martin replied feebly, getting up. He looked awfully rumpled in his threadbare jeans, which gave nothing to the effect of him stalking out of the room, leaving Douglas, strangely, alone with Carolyn.

As eager as he had been to play with Martin's insecurities, Douglas had perhaps not quite anticipated the full consequences of his actions. He and Carolyn alone could only mean a "serious" conversation was forbodingly imminent.

"Douglas," she exhaled slowly, and Douglas turned to meet her eye. Not a good start, when she used his name with that stony yet weary expression, like an aged gargoyle, arid and crumbling from years of biting acid rain. 

"I fear you're about to start on about something you really ought not to be worrying about," Douglas interrupted, keeping his tones as silky smooth as he could muster when his throat had become so suddenly dry. "And I daresay that will get me into much trouble with Hercules the Berkules."

"Oh, do stop calling him that," Carolyn said, but she wasn't snippy, which unnerved Douglas. Good lord, the man would prefer days and days of Martin's sulking and prissiness over this strange new alternate universe with a tired Carolyn and flat Arthur. 

Just to make sure, he pinched himself. 

No such luck.

"For one minute, I need you to be serious, First Officer. Oh... Sod it. Douglas, as a friend, I have to tell you... Well..."

"Nearly as expressive as Martin," Douglas mumbled.

"I want you to take care of Arthur if I... Yes. Well, he doesn't have to stay with you, Herc will still have the house and Arthur can look after himself... But... Douglas, you know what I mean."

"You're not going anywhere though." Had he even say that to reassure her, or himself? Either way, he hadn't really computed it coming out of his mouth. 

Carolyn could tell. 

"Yet. But I've signed a DNR. I signed it years ago, when Gordon and I were... Well. I have no intentions of clinging on after my time, Douglas, and all I am asking of you is that you keep an eye on Arthur when I'm worm-food, six-feet-under."

"...Why not Martin?" Was all Douglas Richardson, infalliable and untouchable master of the heavens, could conjure up from his tight vocal chords. He hadn't meant to sound petty, or unwilling. Exhausting as being around Arthur from prolonged periods of time was (with painful memories of getting snowed into the airfield offices of some tiny northerly airfield in Russia, sharing Cup-a-Soup for 72 hours), Douglas liked to think he would never see the boy come to any harm. But Martin was, although chronically socially awkward, closer to Arthur, being more his age and not nearly as insufferably high-and-mighty as Douglas. And then, there was that single afternoon where Douglas had mused in the Portakabin, concerning himself in a not too lingering way over whether they'd make a good item, before concluding that the "opposites attract" thesis was nothing more than the invalid spin of rom-com writers.

"Martin?" Carolyn almost laughed, had she not looked so dangerously close to crying. "Martin can barely look after himself. And he's moving to Europe, unless you've already forgotte-oh, but you have. Dear me, Douglas."

The thing Douglas hated the most was how all the time Martin had worked at MJN- the fleeting five years- he'd though he'd wanted it to go back to being just him, when they'd had fewer flights and there was that other chap who sometimes turned up to be mostly ornamental in the FO chair. When money wasn't as tight, and being a pilot was still a safe and relatively glamourous career choice. Yet now Martin was spreading his wings, without, it seemed, too much looking back, Douglas would give it all up in a flash. Job security, pension, a peaceful flight deck, abundance of British Airways air hostesses and rowdy hotel bars: just to have that pathetic little ginger man, with his whining and freckles and serene smile, back in the chair on his left.

It was laughable, really.

And damn Carolyn, she could see all that, written straight across he face. 

"What am I going to do with you, Douglas..."

"Nothing. I assure you, I'm fine." But it was too forced. 

"...Do I have your word?"

"Hm?"

"Douglas Richardson, will you promise to look after my son if I kick the proverbial bucket?" 

"You don't even need to ask, Carolyn. I wouldn't let Arthur go far," he muttered, and momentarily entertained the idea of a world without Carolyn- and found, to his dismay, that a heavy feeling took residency in the pit of his stomach that he'd not felt since his days of alcoholism, and, by Jove, could he recognise the feeling of inexorable depression anywhere. The more annoying thing, though, was that when Douglas abruptly tried to turn his mind elsewhere, he found the feeling remained. 

It was exhausting.

"And will you promise to look after Martin?"

Douglas looked at Carolyn incredulously. 

"As Martin has literally just pointed out, he is _37 years old_ , moving to another country. I daresay I-"

"Douglas, I haven't got time for your whining. Either you are, or you aren't."

Douglas paused.

"Fine."

"Good. Now shoo. Talking to fools is tiring, and I need to pretend I'm asleep before Herc gets back."

"Positively made for each other," Douglas remarked, but Carolyn didn't react; and all the better, Douglas thought. The comment was flat, like a bouncy ball that had seen days of sunshine and parks, now a deflated, unimportant scrap of rubber in the gutter by the side of the road. 

He allowed himself a backwards glance when he reached the door- subtly, so not to unnerve Carolyn (something he never would have thought he'd have to worry about). And, indeed, she looked frail. As if she might snap under the strain of an uncertain future; the fathoming of a motherless son, a friendless suicidal, a drifting ex-alcoholic. 

The French, Douglas later reflected, had the perfect phrase for what came next: "l'esprit de l'escalier". There wasn't a word for the lack of words in English- the heaviness of what went unsaid, what stood behind the simple croaking of a "Thank you" that he didn't think about. The way, in that single moment, he forgot to hear the purling of the water in the drainpipe outside the window or plot his next acerbic comment to Martin, and he only realised this had happened was because he was surprised when he started hearing the gurgling pipe again, after having a vague sense of it having gone on for a while, and for having a blank mind, when, at long last, he gave a nod in Carolyn's direction, and threw open the door.


	4. Martin

Douglas almost missed Martin completely, coming out of the room. It was the way he seemed to be huddled into himself that made him seem smaller than he already was: arms looped around his own torso, hands tucked under his armpits, and his feet drawn right underneath the rickety blue waiting chair, crossing his worn-out trainers, as if fighting the cold away from the backs of his shins. 

"What was it?" he asked, looking up at Douglas. His eyes were dull; he'd not been crying, had he? 

It was only then that Douglas clocked Arthur, in the next seat along, but, as it was from where Douglas was loitering still, in the doorway, he was partially hidden, clutching Martin's arm (making sure to avoid his tender hands). He wasn't saying anything. Just like Douglas, only moments earlier: except now, Douglas had to find the words for Martin, about Martin, when all he really wanted to do was walk straight out of the front door and find a pub.

"Oh, you know," Douglas tried, hoping he didn't sound too miserable, "Being very un-Carolyn-y, asking after Arthur and yourself."

"Me? I-I mean... W-W-Why me?" Martin spluttered, and Arthur furrowed his brow.

"Because, believe it or not, people care about you, Martin," Douglas spat, surprisingly vicious. He didn't feel that way; well, he was most certainly angry, but it was more of a dull, aching bitterness that he couldn't really bring himself to act on, not really. He was too busy being confused learning things he decided he'd rather not know about people he preferred to keep at arms length, yet who insisted on coming closer. 

Jesus. Did Martin not mind Arthur clutching his arm like that?

"That's news, Douglas, it really is," Martin mumbled in returned, purposely avoiding his gaze as he tried to get to his feet. Arthur was persistent. "Arthur, please."

"Where are you going?" Douglas asked, as Arthur let go, and slouched into his seat, part sulking child, part deeply troubled adult nodding at social conventions by masking his dismal mood with the air of someone who was merely stressed. It would have been an interesting mood to study, had almost every ounce of Douglas' today reluctant intellectual inquisition not been focused on his ever elusive co-pilot. 

"N-Nowhere." His hands were trembling, but it wasn't anger. Douglas put it down to low sugar-levels, but soon, he would find it was much simpler, if not more unexpected than that. 

Douglas felt something between smug dominance and a gripping sadness as Martin dismissed him with a flick of his untamable hair, turning away to part walk, part stumble out of the ward. 

"You OK, Arthur?" Douglas asked, not taking his eyes off the door of the ward as Martin turned the corner.

"Yeah..." Arthur paused to ponder his next words, enunciating each syllable as if it were a shard of glass on the tip of his tongue; "Do you know that feeling, when someone's being really horrible to you, but you still think they're brilliant, so you can't really be mad with them?"

"Surprise you though it might, Arthur, having been through four divorces, I tend to, unfortunately, see the worst in people. Or, in answer to your question; no, I don't get _that feeling_. Why, did Martin say something to you?"

"Umm... No, Skip didn't say anything actually. But it's not exactly that feeling, not really, just a little bit like it. I'm not sure. It's like jelly: sometimes I think it's nice, but sometimes you look at it, slimy and cold and made from seaweed or horses hooves or whatever it's made of, and you wonder how people can eat it."

"I... I really don't get that feeling. At all. Sorry, Arthur." Douglas tried his best to keep his replies short, aware that simply because Arthur wasn't crying like a four-year-old anymore, didn't mean he wasn't the same vulnerable man Carolyn had just virtually begged him to watch over. "Listen... Arthur... I need to pop somewhere for ten minutes or so. You'll be alright here, if Herc's coming back?" It wasn't a question, but, thankfully for Douglas, Arthur met his eyes and nodded, smiling a horribly dilute smile.

Douglas didn't need to hear anymore. He barely could, anyway, as walking off, he became hyper-aware of how loud the rushing of blood in his ears was, and, in relation to this, how fast his heart was beating. 

As much as he tried to kid himself, as well as some unseen voyeur, Douglas was looking for Martin. He took a meaningful left out of the ward, being that right would only lead him to Radiotherapy and Orthopaedics, and strolled down the corridor as if he had a purpose, not meeting anyone's eye, pretending he wasn't looking for the bobbing of a crop of floppy flame-coloured hair in the sea of tired, grey faces and worn scrubs.

Douglas had, in all honesty, been expecting Martin to be in the queue for the coffee-shop, pretending he didn't have a slight caffeine dependency while he deliberated over the menu, only to choose the same as always, Americano (even if he only ever requested "black coffee please", as if scared of tripping over his own tongue with the exoticness of a Spanish word). Although he did see Martin in the coffee shop, it wasn't in the queue at all: rather, Douglas was loitering around the paper stand trying to spot him, when something caught in his periphery. Martin, slamming his way out of the front doors.

He wasn't leaving, was he? Douglas panicked, and throwing caution to the wind, pulled his jacket about him and stalked meaningfully across the lobby.

The biting wind on his face made Douglas realise just how flushed and hot he felt. Was it the to the disposition of hospitals to slowly cook their patients, or was he more to do with the pent up frustrations of family and the waiting game? Not that it was a welcome breeze, as Douglas found himself wishing he'd worn gloves. Martin wasn't enjoying himself either, as he noted the presence of the younger man by his hair, huddling over with his back facing Douglas.

Huddling, it seemed, as Martin turned slightly, to create a shield against the elements.

"Martin? I didn't know you smoked," Douglas inquired, startling Martin, who was still failing to light the damn thing with his awfully cheap-looking acid yellow lighter.

"... I-I don't," Martin squeaked, looking up at Douglas with his eyebrows raised, as if about to rub sleep from his eyes. Douglas coughed.

"Much as it grieves me to rain on your parade, Martin, you're in the process of fai- no, wait, you have lit a cigarette. Correct me if I'm wrong, but that is, loosely, the very definition of "smoking"."

"Alright, Douglas; I am smoking..." He exhaled, and the look that spread across his face said differently to what came out of his mouth: "B-B-But it's not a regular thing, I-I mean, not anymore, it was when I was about twenty or something but... Y'know. Less socially acceptable in the twenty-first century."

"If my memory serves me right, Martin, you were twenty in ninety-eight."

"Nineteen-ninety-seven. And it's still the twentieth century."

"And you've decided to take it up again now, outside a hospital of all places, why, exactly?" Douglas gave Martin a sideways glance, to which Martin merely exhaled a lungful of bitter-tasting smoke in his direction.

"I don't need to answer that, Douglas. Just... J-Just don't tell Arthur. O-O-Or Carolyn, for that matter; God, she already thinks me that much of a lost-cause or something, I don't want her calling up my mother or something and telling me I've been bloody peer-pressured into smoking sticks of tar and arsenic." He sounded disappointed with himself, moodily flicking ash on the sodden, gum-spangled ground.

"Peer-pressured?" Was all Douglas could muster. He was thinking, and watching Martin's movements assiduously. 

"And there- Ha. At twenty? I spent most of that decade studying for my CPL... Oh, go on, I can see you itching to make a joke about it."

"No," Douglas dissented, endeavouring not to get annoyed with Martin when, quite frankly, he was acting like a petulant child. In that mood, all Douglas could do without making matters worse- and he knew what was at stake this time- was keep a smooth, restrained tone, and hope Martin didn't do anything stupid. "Actually, I was going to ask if you had a box."

"People aren't in the habit of buying single cigarettes."

"Except on the bus home from school for 10p."

"20p. Inflation." Martin caught Douglas' eye, and clocked what was going on. "Mayfairs," he added, and proffered the box. "I thought you didn't smoke?"

"I don't." Martin handed him the lighter, and, as if in a movie, he lit up. "But I'm fifty-six, Martin, so I grew up in an era where everyone bar the cat smoked in our household."

There was another pause, in which both Martin and Douglas took long drags, exhaling simultaneously in a melancholy upwards fashion, Martin rubbing invisible sleep from his left eye. 

"You're supposed to be the go-to man in a crisis, Douglas. You're supposed to be able to fix everything," Martin's voice cracked. "You went to med school?" He rounded on the older man, "You must know a trick... O-Or... I know it sounds insane, but there must be something... Arthur, he..."

"Martin, for gossake, listen to yourself! There's nothing I can do for Carolyn. She's fine now anyway."

"Y-Yes, b-b-but it'll happen again, she said about Art-"

"She signed a DNR years ago, Martin, and she's getting on a bit; I'm surprised she knows that, but she knows that it'll happen someday. Christ, Martin, maybe it's because you're young but when you get to my age, you'll have drawn up a will, and you'll wonder every now and again... about dying."

Martin looked stunned, but bit back all the same.

"Less to do with my being young than the fact that I haven't got a penny in the world." 

"I wasn't going to say that, Martin."

"Well, I did," he muttered. Douglas tensed, daring a sideways glance at him. He was looking away, absent-minded of his cigarette, which smouldered, a mere stub, between his index and middle finger.

"That won't be the same for long, though?" Douglas pointed out, before being struck with an epiphany, and quickly adding, "...Martin, this isn't about guilt, is it?"

"What do you mean, about guilt?" 

Maybe it was just Douglas, but Martin sounded like he was on the defence. Odd. He'd not really meant to hit a nerve; not that accidently doing so didn't please him, in that passive way that annoying Martin invariably did. 

Douglas decided to test the water, deducing that if he wandered off down the wrong path of questioning, Martin would lose interest. "You tell me."

"There is nothing to tell, Douglas, because it's not about guilt." And yet, he lit another cigarette from the box, as if chain smoking would somehow block out the fact that Douglas was now not even trying to hide the fact that he was watching Martin rather closely.

"I don't get why you'd be guilty." Douglas wasn't really directing it at Martin, more in the direction of the row of ambulances to his left, in a kind of pondering way. Which was probably for the best, as Martin didn't visibly react, even though Douglas knew he'd heard.

There was a pause.

"It's a stupid reason for feeling guilty."

Douglas turned to look at Martin, raising one eyebrow only slightly, as to keep the tone serious, as Martin seemed to want it, regarding Douglas shiftily while puffing expertly on his cigarette. It was unnatural to think that Martin could look so at ease doing it, without coughing or spluttering. 

"Are there stupid reasons for anything like that?"

"Oh, c'mon, Douglas, I'm the bloody king of embarrassing."

"You should put that on a t-shirt." Martin was probably uncomfortable with the mood being so serious, so Douglas tried a smile, stubbing out his awful cigarette on the wall.

"If it's the reason I think," Douglas sighed, "Then it's not stupid."

"Which reason are you thinking?"

"You. Switzerland." Douglas grinned, regardless as to whether he felt like it. "Ring a bell?"

Martin's lip wobbled.

"Look, much as I would have preferred some notice on the matter, and for you to have been straight with Arthur..." Douglas repeated what he was about to say a few times in his head, to check it sounded right- because it was complicated. "I don't empathise with you, but I understand. And, to be honest, it's not like there's much I can do about it now." 

"I can stay..."

"For God's sake Martin! I said I understand," Douglas' voice became a mere growl, "Which means I understand."

"It's not just your choice though!" Martin cried, throwing his cigarette into the tray on top of the bin a metre to his right, and missing. He watched sorrowfully as the wind rolled the cigarette a metre or so into the gutter, where it smouldered moodily for a split second before fizzling out. "W-What about Arthur, and Carolyn?" 

"It's nothing to do with them! You're the hapless dolt who can't pay for a proper fridgeful of food... You know, if you were capable of such manipulation, I'd say..." Douglas lost his train of thought, and his will to continue arguing his point, simultaneously. 

"I'm going inside," he concluded gruffly, but, before he could stalk off and leave Martin failing at lighting yet another cigarette, Martin interrupted.

"I-I... W-When my Dad died, i-it... It was the same day as my interview with Carolyn. I got a call about an hour and a half before I was due to be at the airfield saying he'd been taken into hospital: a-a-and I knew it was serious, even though he'd been ill for months, but... I ignored it. I told Caitlin I was busy, hung up, and threw my phone at the wall. I had my interview... And, well, you know how it went, it was emotionally draining. And I got out just in time to pick up a call from Simon saying it was all over... and it sounds terrible, but I had this awful sense of relief. Even though the interview hadn't been worth it, and I was still an unpaid failure of a pilot, I was still glad that I hadn't been _there_."

Douglas wasn't sure why Martin was confessing his sins to his First Officer, but his face said that it was important, that it was serious. So Douglas rubbed his forehead, trying his answer a few times in his head before saying it aloud, so to make it sound as supportive as possible.

"...Did you like your Dad?" 

"Um... Yeah...? I mean, he was nothing like Gordon or anything. He did everything for me, even if we never really had anything in common."

Douglas blinked, taking in the dishevelled, sorry-looking man with his freckles and ears and cigarette. He wasn't sure what he could say that would be the right thing. Of course, he was normally excellent at being the one to say something, but it would always be the most witty or understated or sarcastic thing. Had he ever said anything that really meant something to anyone? One of his wives? His daughter? A colleague: Martin, even?

Again, Douglas found himself reminding himself that in an emergency, Arthur called Martin and not him.

He turned away, feeling his first prickles of shame warming the back of his neck as he wandered towards the hospital doors. He hated himself too much to look back at the man who, in that moment, felt like the smallest, most insignificant person in the world.


End file.
